Trust
by ChockaBlock
Summary: Memories of childhood, a short Malcolm Reed introspective piece. Tucker Reed slash. Well, fluff really...


Trust

Suddenly, and without really wanting to, Malcolm remembered the argument, although not the precise words. In the days, weeks, months and, depressingly, years since, he had rehashed it over and over, and like a game of Chinese whispers the words had blurred and melded and rearranged themselves - more bitter now, he fancied, but he couldn't be sure.

The feelings though, they never altered. At thirty-six he shouldn't still feel the sting of betrayal that he had at ten, the intensity undiminished by either time or distance. In all probability, his issues regarding trust and commitment were not wholly to be blamed on the events that were set into motion that night, but in Malcolm's mind it was a pivotal moment and, really, that was all that mattered.

Malcolm hadn't been asleep, despite the fact that he'd been sent to bed hours ago and it was gone midnight. He'd been sat, cross-legged, with his bedclothes over his head like a collapsed tent hiding the light from his torch as he drew in his journal. His counsellor had suggested he keep a journal on his thoughts and feelings, but writing was something he found difficult, and his mistakes he found embarrassing, so he drew his journal instead. Mum and Dad didn't know; they weren't supposed to ask about his counselling session, so when they inevitably did ask, Malcolm felt justified in omitting as many truths as he thought he could get away with. Omitting truths wasn't the same as lying, he'd heard Dad say that once, when he'd been talking to one of his Navy friends about a mission report he'd given to his commander. Malcolm probably oughtn't to have been listening to that conversation, but he was always small for his age, and easily overlooked. If people didn't check in cupboards or under tables when they had private conversations then that was their problem. Surveillance is vital, Dad had said that once too.

In his journal that night, Malcolm had been drawing the stream that ran behind the playing fields of his latest school. Sometimes he would watch the other kids sneaking down there during their lunchbreak and swimming in that stream, leaving their uniforms in grubby piles on the muddy riverbank, splashing each other and shrieking. They really weren't supposed to be there as it was considered dangerous, but telling young children that somewhere was out of bounds was only ever going to make it more attractive to them. One time Heidi had noticed him huddled up in the branches of an especially gnarly old oak and had climbed up and straddled the bough a little below him, her long dark hair dripping murky water onto her school blouse.

She folded her arms over her chest and scowled at him, and looked scarily like his mother when she was cross. "Are you going to tell on us?"

"No. If I tell, then I'll have to admit I was here too and I'll be in trouble."

Heidi considered this, and must have approved of his logic for she let the matter drop. "Don't you want to swim with us?"

Even the thought of it made him shudder, but he fussed with his pencil using the point to dig some bark off his branch to cover. "Nah. I'm busy."

"With your book?"

"Yeah," he said defensively.

"You're weird, you know that?" Then, "Can I see?"

"No. 'S private."

She shrugged, and swung her leg back over the branch ready for her climb down. "You can keep look out then, Army boy."

"Navy," he corrected, quietly though because he knew he'd never be Navy if he couldn't even bear the thought of jumping in a stream.

He wished he could though, then maybe Dad would be proud of him, and not look at him the way that Malcolm looked at Mum's sorry attempts to cook.

In his journal that night he was drawing two pictures, one he labelled 'REAL' in careful handwriting, and one labelled 'WHAT I WANT'. He was just finishing the second picture - the one where he was winning a swimming race against Patrick Conway, and Dad was smiling and Maddie was crying because she wasn't favourite anymore - when the shouting started.

He tried to ignore it at first. Sometimes his parents fought and his counsellor said that was normal, but if it ever got violent he was to tell her, but it never did. On nights when it got really bad, Maddie would sneak into his room and they'd play Snap by torchlight until it went quiet again. Malcolm would usually win, after all he was older and his reflexes a little quicker but neither of them were exactly at their most focused. She must have been deeply asleep that night. After ten minutes of listening to the muffled shouting, Malcolm slid silently out of bed.

Outside his bedroom was a small landing and he'd padded across it, bare feet on carpet although he was too light to make much of a noise anyway. He sat on the top stair, where the light from downstairs made the posts of the banister cast an army of weird shadows along the wall. He hugged himself tightly despite the warmth of the night.

They were in the kitchen. Kitchen arguments were worse than living room ones. They always retreated to the kitchen to row if Malcolm and Maddie were still awake and watching the entertainment broadcasts. Going to the kitchen meant that whatever they were fighting about was important enough not to be 'discussed' in front of children. Why smart people like Mum and Dad couldn't understand that the walls weren't soundproof was beyond Malcolm. But Malcolm's Granddad was going deaf - because he was old, Mum said - so maybe adults can't hear as well as children and that's why they didn't realise?

Mum had sounded upset. Dad had sounded tired. Their voices weren't really all that loud, Malcolm realised, in comparison to some rows they'd had, and Malcolm slipped down a couple more steps on his pyjama clad bottom to hear better.

"But we only just got settled!"

"I can't refuse the position Mary, you know that. Look,"

"No, Stuart, you look! Look around you. This is my home! You've dragged us from pillar to post for the last decade and finally, finally we're back in England, the children are settling in. I've settled in, for Christ's sake! I don't want to go to Malaysia, I want to stay here."

There was a slamming noise. Not a door, maybe a mug on the counter top. Mum had probably been making tea. She seemed to do that automatically when she was upset.

Malcolm didn't want to move again. He hadn't really made friends here, though Heidi sat with him on Tuesdays when her best friend Jessica went for her violin lesson, but it was less horrible than most of the other schools. At least he spoke the same language as the others, even if they made fun of his mixed up accent sometimes. Even the counsellor the school had insisted he see wasn't too bad. She said they were making progress, and though Malcolm wasn't sure what that meant exactly, she'd smiled so he figured it was a good thing.

"You knew when we married that I'm career military. I go where I'm posted."

"And the three of us are supposed to just pack up our lives and follow? Is your career really more important than your family?"

"Oh, come on Mary! I'm doing this for you."

"You're doing this for yourself Stuart, just like you do everything for yourself. Can't you see what you're doing to them?"

"They'll be alright. Kids are resilient to change."

"Maybe babies are, but Malcolm is ten and Madeline is eight and they are not resilient enough to be upped and tossed into a new country, a new house, a new school - again!"

"There is no need to get hysterical woman!"

"Your ten-year-old son is seeing a bloody psychiatrist, he can barely read and write and has virtually no social interaction with people his own age because every six months we yank him out of school and drag him off somewhere else."

There was a pause then, long enough for Malcolm to really start thinking about what was being said, and being said about him. He wasn't good enough, and they were angry about it.

"You're right."

"I'm right?"

"Malcolm can board. We can get him into a good school, he's a bright boy, he'll catch up soon enough. Do him good, I reckon."

"Leave him here?"

"It's not like we're abandoning him, love. Boarding school is something we should have considered years ago. Then maybe he wouldn't have the... problems he has."

"He'll feel like we abandoned him."

"He spends all his time hiding out from us and scribbling in that damn book. He won't even notice we're not around."

"This isn't just about Malcolm, Stuart."

"Maddie seems to be adjusting better. She has a more outgoing personality, fits in better, I think."

"I don't just mean the children. This is my life too, I have feelings to consider..."

Malcolm lost the rest of the conversation as he ran back to his room and dived under the covers. Crying silently was a trick he'd perfected so long ago he didn't even recall when, but it was necessary as Reed men don't cry, even when they were going to be sent away because they're not good enough. Somewhere underneath him on the mattress his journal crackled, and his father's words came back to him. If he didn't keep his journal then he'd 'fit in better' and he could stay, like Maddie. He scrunched it between his fists, and pulled and tore at it, using his teeth when his trembling fingers weren't strong enough to rip the thick sheets.

Even being on his best behaviour didn't change anything. Less than a month later he was installed in his new school.

He'd coped. Reeds usually did. A basic genetic stubborn streak kicked in whenever things got too bad and carried them through. Looking back, Malcolm was fairly sure that boarding school saved him. The structure, the purpose given to virtually every second of his day, disciplined him far better than fear of his father's temper ever did. After all, his dad could only punish him if he found out what he was up to, and Malcolm was very good at keeping himself to himself. And, like his dad had guessed, he made up for all the lost education in a year or so.

The feeling, though, the abandonment, that didn't change. If your parents can give up on you then anyone can, and will, sooner or later. But only if you give them the chance.

"Well?" Trip asked, concern marking his features. Malcolm knew he'd been silent too long, but his brain was twenty-six years ago, huddling at the top of the stairs in the dark. "I don't think my knee can stand this much longer, darlin'"

Trip fidgeted, shifted from one knee to the other, still looking up at Malcolm, still holding his hand. Still waiting for an answer.

"I..."

"I know it's a big deal Malcolm, it's not like I go around doing this a lot - or ever before as it happens - but I want to spend the rest of my life with you." He looked hopeful, "So?"

The rest of his life, or until he got bored? Until he realised what hard work Malcolm was to deal with? Until someone better came along?

Past experience warned him against trusting, against believing in the happy ending he wanted so very much, but looking into those deep blue eyes, Malcolm's heart told him something different. Following his heart was a very un-Reed-like thing to do, but the Reeds had let him down long ago, and even their reconciliation had been brief, faltering when Malcolm had chosen Starfleet over the Royal Navy. Perhaps it was time to let go of those hurt feelings once and for all.

With a deep breath, he said: "Yes."

In years to come he'd look back on this conversation and not be able to remember the exact words, them having been twisted and embellished in the course of repeated recounting and private reminiscing. But he could remember the feeling of total happiness he'd felt when Trip had beamed at him, and hugged him close, and they'd tripped over each other as they'd crossed Malcolm's quarters and fell tangled onto his bunk. And he felt it again every morning when he woke up beside his husband.


End file.
